If Hopes were Dupes
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Summary: Derailed by an unexpected loss, Morse contemplates his actions.


If Hopes were Dupes

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Derailed by an unexpected loss, Morse contemplates his actions.

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Packed with patrons, the pub's atmosphere was loud and joyful. Somebody's birthday he guessed, as voices broke out in a merry version of – 'for he's a jolly good fellow.'

"A jolly good fellow" – he bemoaned inwardly, and took a swallow of ale.

Hazy cigarette smoke drifted slowly upward to eventually hover just beneath the ceiling, giving the room a surreal, dream like quality. None of this could be real. In some weird twist of reality, he felt caught; no trapped in a parallel universe. Trapped in a universe, which seemed agonizingly familiar; but unrecognizable at the same time.

The lighting though dim here in the pub seemed overly bright and made him squint. Voices though gleeful, pierced his ears like screeching tires and made him wince. Breaking out in a sweat, he loosed his tie and took a deep breath.

He felt so disconnected here; alone, seated within the midst of many…invisible.

A mirthless laugh bubbled up from his belly and escaped without his permission. To push it down before the laughter erupted into a sort of hysteria; he took a large gulp of his pint. Swallowing past the lump in his throat was painful, so he coughed to keep from choking.

Morse rubbed roughly at his eyes, leaned over and groaned into his hands. The elated, giddy happiness run rampant in the room grated on his nerves. The copious amount of alcohol he had ingested over the past few hours did nothing to dull his senses. Instead, it seemed to heighten them.

What he needed was to escape, to get away.

Looking about, he was incredulous. How was it that life moved on in spite of unspeakable tragedy? How could someone celebrate another year added when life for George had been so brutally cut short? No more birthdays; loves; adventures…life's lessons learned.

George was regulated to the ether. George was gone – murdered; cheated out of his future. A future that was assured a wife, a family…for certain children. He was just the sort of person to push for normal; to be the hardworking, dependable friend and neighbor.

The image of him smiling; drinking a pint; making mistakes and learning from them – eager to please materialized in his mind's eye and he shivered as something akin to revenge began to take shape and sit on the edge of his consciousness. Shaking loose the vision, he clenched his fists tight.

He should have been kinder. Why hadn't he been kinder? What was it about him that he couldn't have been kinder?

What would it have taken to just have pulled George Fancy aside; given some advice; guided in a meaningful way…to not have been so stern; taciturn or judgmental?

Maybe somewhere in there, if he had said something worthwhile to him; sat down and talked to him…it might have been the one thing that helped save his life.

Lifting his head, Morse gazed about the crowded room, studying the faces around him; measuring them up – because that's what he did. It was his gift after all, to scrutinize until he could get a handle on personalities; modus operandi; the meaning of a look or motive behind a particular word or phrase…to solve a puzzle.

And George had been a puzzle.

He should have taken the time to scrutinize him the way he analyzed suspects every day. The way he had gotten to know Thursday; Jim and Dr. DeBryn…and in some way had gotten to know Trewlove; independent, ambitious Shirley Trewlove.

Only now he was gone. The opportunity lost.

Bleary eyed he noticed a young man walk across his path…dark hair, an enthusiastic bounce in his step searching out his mates. Perking up, he sat forward to gaze through the halo of smoke; and for a moment, he thought – "there goes our Fancy" and made to call out. Ask him to take a seat; join him at his table; tell him about how the job was treating him. But as the fellow drew closer, he could see that it wasn't their George. Not their Fancy, who wore his emotions on his sleeve, who loved hard and worked to please.

Sighing, Morse sagged beneath the weight of regret.

If he had known, just a little of George Fancy, he could have been of more use while his parents stood before him, grief stricken asking for him to give the eulogy. "He spoke so highly of you, he did." Mr. Fancy had croaked out, his hand trembling as Morse gripped it with heartfelt condolences. "He loved this job, and wanted so much to be good at it….to help people." And so, he agreed to do it; could not say, "no – not me; it should be someone who knew him; cared deeply for him and was not afraid to say good-bye."

Tipping his empty mug, he could see there was nothing left to drink and he needed another drink. Something to fortify him, give him a sense of false bravado. Only he hadn't the energy or the coordination to get up from his seat in search of another.

Outright drunk he groaned inwardly, ashamed to be in such a state. It was not something he did on the usual – get plastered in public. It was more his way to get smashed in private; where no one could see him reeling from life's hard blows to the body.

Surprisingly, without warning inebriation settled over him like a blanket….into his bones. Shrugging his shoulders, Morse succumbed and surrendered to its hold. Resting his head in his hands, he wondered what tomorrow would bring.

What could he possibly impart to George's friends and family about his life and senseless death?

In his ear, he could hear Trewlove's pained voice, quivering with grief as she reminded him that, "Life is for the living." And if he wasn't good at saying good-bye then, "Let's not say it."

Let's not say it. But wasn't that what funerals were for?

"What's this then Mate?" And out of the smoke and mass of pressed bodies appeared Jim, looking down at him, his eyebrows drawn together. He seemed perplexed; as if he didn't understand the scene before him. As if he had spoken and was now waiting for some response; for Morse to shed some light on the matter.

Peering up, the room spinning, the noise rising to a fevered pitch of laughter and good humor, Morse cleared his throat to speak over the commotion swirling around them. "I'm not good at saying good-bye" he lamented.

Jamming his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, Jim carefully considered Morse who was pale and obviously intoxicated. A hint of something he did not know simmered beneath the surface, taking him aback. After a beat he made a decision. Reaching down, he grabbed hold of the lapels of Morse's suit jacket and hauled the man with little effort to his feet.

"No one's good at saying good-bye" he whispered; then held Morse up by the shoulders…walking him slow and steady through the throng of people toward the door.

Leaning into Jim's strength, Morse murmured, "What shall I say? You knew him better than I" as they finally emerged from the pub's cloistered heat out onto the quiet street – where the air was cool and crisp; where muffled sounds of music and gaiety dissipated behind the closed door.

Having never been asked for anything by Morse, Jim seemed momentarily stunned; and unable to speak. So, side by side, standing beneath a circle of light he thought on how to answer. Holding Morse up with a firm grip, so as not to let him fall offered solemnly, "Say something about how hard he worked; about how he had such hopes and wanted to achieve so much. Say that will you?"

And so to hide his own grief; did not wait for an acknowledgment, but instead took on Morse's weight and led him home.

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Thank you for reading. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. I recently saw episode 5 'Icarus' and wondered how Morse chose to read the poem 'Say not the struggle nought Availeth' by Arthur Hugh Clough. This is my take.


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